Broken Lives
by Tuesday Too
Summary: Tag to 11.11 "Into the Mystic." Dean's having a bad day...


_**Author's Note:** Spoilers for Ep 11x11 "Into the Mystic"_

 _I don't know about you guys, but I was really expecting the banshee to go after Sam, so I was kinda thrown when it came after Dean. It got me thinking… what could be eating at Dean? This story is the result. I hope you all enjoy!_

 _The title is from the song that plays at the end of the episode, "Prison Grove" by Warren Zevon and a few lines in the story come from dialogue between the characters. Not mine._

* * *

Dean scrubbed a hand over his eyes. Five hours away…That wasn't a bad drive, not for them. They'd driven 2 days for less of a case. But Sioux City? It was a little too close to Sioux Falls. He pulled the laptop shut. Normally, he'd have enough cases to take to Sam and even give them some choice in the job, but considering he hadn't even been able to convince Sam to leave the bunker to make a grocery run…

Sam wasn't saying much, but obviously something was wrong. He huffed at that. Of course something was wrong. His brother had been stuck in _hell_ with _the devil._ He understood needing some time to process, but stuck up in the bunker, all Sam was doing was thinking about Lucifer and whatever the hell production he'd put on. Sam needed a distraction, and Dean could help with that. He just needed to find them a case, get them back in the swing of things.

He reached over, grabbing the newspaper's off he'd picked up from the gasmart yesterday off his nightstand. He scanned through the pages… 'Tragic Teen Suicide…' 'Near Fatal Mugging…' 'Retiree Found Slain…' He scanned through the stories until one caught his attention. Skull bashed in and no sign of intruder, huh? Definitely sounded like their kinda gig. And only 15 minutes away?

"Yahtzee."

He glanced at the clock. 5:48. No point in trying to get back to sleep now. He got up, pulling on his robe, and headed to the kitchen, newspaper in hand. Coffee sounded good. He could use all the backup he could get in convincing Sam to take the case.

* * *

Dean dropped the match in the grave, staring at the burning bones. Of course. Of course the sorry SOB's name was Jake. And once again, first came Jake, then came hellfire. He stared at the crackling flames in front of him, watching them lick up at the sky. Well, this might not be hellfire - there was no smell of burning flesh, no agonizing screams as a soul burned alive, no white hot pain as the flames reached him - but this fire still had heat. And if he was thinking about Hell, he knew Sam - Mr. over-think-everything - was thinking about it.

He'd been the one stupid enough to agree to the plan. Like anything good could have come out of letting his brother back near that cage. As if Lucifer would just tell them some magic answer that would make all their problems go away, and all from the goodness of his heart. Gosh, he'd been stupid. Messes did not get cleaned up that easy. And now Sam was paying the price.

Because Sam was _not okay, actually, not at all_ , and the fact that he even admitted that much was scary enough. And Sam didn't want to talk about hell and how not okay he was, and Dean got that, he did, but he could've gone for a chick flick moment about now. Anything that would help Sam, help fix this…

The flames kept burning and smoke teased at his eyes.

"Rest in peace, Jake," He muttered, mind full with the image of Jake's body shot through with bullet holes, and then the body of his brother, bleeding out in his arms.

* * *

Dean inched the radio dial round and round, till he could feel the Metallica thrumming through his baby's leather seats, thrumming in his bones.

Thrumming…

Thrumming…

Needing to kill.

He stabbed at the console, shutting the music off, then passed a hand shakily over his brow. That was not a feeling he needed to feel again. Ever.

No wonder Sam didn't see retirement in their future. Not that long ago he'd nearly killed any chance at retirement for either of them with the mark. He might've doomed them anyway — not to mention the world — with the darkness unleashed. And it seemed like he was having trouble fighting this evil too. Resisting the mark, resisting Amara… he was exhausted.

Story time with Cas had not been his idea of a good time, especially when Cas hit the nail on the head. Attraction? To the friggin darkness? It sounded bad, even to him. He wasn't sure if it was the mark still haunting him or something twisted inside of him, or even that it mattered one way or another. In any case, he couldn't kill Amara. Next thing you know, he'd be batting for her team, trying to stop anyone who tried.

He pressed down harder on the gas. He was a hunter. And that meant ganking monsters. He might not be able to kill the darkness, but he knew a Banshee that was going to eat it tonight.

* * *

"What's your name?"

"Seriously, Sam?" Dean squinted up at his brother who was digging through a first aid kit laid out on the room's dining room table.

"Guess again. That's my name." Sam held a cotton swab up to a bottle and tipped it over before fixing Dean with a level look. "But yeah, dude, I'm serious. You were trying to beat your own brains out. You're lucky to be talking."

"Name's Dean, Dr. Glass Half-Full." Dean grumbled, shifting in the chair. The overhead lights weren't doing the pounding in his head any favors. "I gank monsters, my baby's a 1967 Chevy Impala, and I always swoop in to save my little brother's ass."

Sam probed at the cut on Dean's forehead before dabbing at it. Dean hissed quietly at the sting of the alcohol.

"You good?" Sam asked, gaze flickering to meet Dean's as he switched out the cotton swab for a butterfly bandage.

"Yeah," he affirmed, trying not find too much humor in Sam's concern. The cut wasn't bad. It was stupid to have reacted to it. His head hurt a heck of a lot worse — kinda like some miners decided to take up permanent residency. But what really ate at him was the fact that the Banshee came after him, out of all of them. Sam just got out of Hell for crying out loud, and Dean's the vulnerable one? He's not strong enough and even the Banshee knows.

* * *

He lay in his bed, waiting for sleep, Mildred's words playing over in his head.

 _Pining for someone else._

Funny thing was, he hadn't even thought of Lisa in weeks. Then that hotel manager had to go blabbing about his wife leaving, without really even leaving him a message, too much of a friggin coward to come clean with the truth to his face. Lisa and Ben may not remember Dean's lack of proper goodbye, his cowardly clean-up job, but Dean remembered every second. And he knew they'd deserved better. He didn't know what else he could've done though. Survive that mess, and there were sure to be more. There were always more messes when Dean was involved.

An image of Lisa came to mind, her mouth softly smirking through all those freckles, arms around Ben, dark auburn hair glinting—

Framing a cool smile.

No. This wasn't about Amara. He tried to picture Lisa again, but the hair, smile, black v-neck dress persisted, the sensation of — He shoved his eyes open, pushing the images away, pushing himself up to a sitting position on his bed. He would fight this. Somehow. He breathed slowly, trying not to rattle the insides of his head anymore. This was not his best day. But Sam was doing better. The darkness was still out there, and he still had messes to mop, but one battle at a time.

He ran his hands against the side of his head, trying to reassure himself, cause he like he said, it just matters that he and Sam are together. And he was gonna fix this, he was. But even with his eyes open, he was still stuck staring at the darkness.

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:** I'll be curious to see what the next episode shows us in terms of why Dean was targeted. Any feedback is greatly appreciated. Thanks!_


End file.
